Sectumsempra
by fina5
Summary: While getting ready for the Weasley's Christmas Party, Harry and Draco get caught up in the past—and each other. One-shot. Draco-centric.


**So this is my first Drarry/HP fic.**

 **I wrote it as a present for my best friend in the world, who is eighteen today! Ily, bae. 3**

 **Ok, well, pls read, review and enjoy!**

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Fixing his tie, Draco scoffs, "Please tell me you're not wearing that."

Harry stands in the entranceway of Draco's flat in jeans and a fuzzy, red mass of a sweater with a large, startlingly yellow 'H' emblazoned on the front of it. "What? It's Gryffindor colors."

Draco looks down at his own outfit, which consists of black slacks, a white button-up, and a blue tie. Infuriatingly enough, it does _not_ match Harry's attire even though Draco _told_ Harry what he was going to wear so that Harry could match with him. He raises a calculating eyebrow. "Shame you weren't smart enough to be sorted into Ravenclaw, then. You look better in blue."

"Nice try, Malfoy," Harry replies, striding past Draco. "But I'm at your house, so I can't change."

 _It's not like I was lying,_ Draco thinks bitterly, closing the door. "There's such a thing as transfiguration, you know."

Harry wanders into the kitchen, plucking a tin of Paulopabita's Fishy Green Ale from the fridge. "Doesn't matter. This is a Weasley get-together—one has to wear the sweater Mrs. Weasley knit for him."

"Oh, bloody hell," Draco gripes, loosening his tie and slipping it over his head. Of course, Harry only tells him this now, long after it's too late to plan accordingly. He stomps over to his bedroom and slides the door open before proceeding to unbutton his shirt. Already thinking of what else he can change into, he slips the last button from its place and pulls the shirt down from his shoulders until—

"Hey, so I was thinking—" Harry voices as he leans against the doorway of the bedroom before being cut off by a yelp from Draco.

After tugging his sleeves back onto his shoulders, Draco clutches the opposite ends of his shirt together in his clenched fists. He twists his body around to face Harry, who stands stunned a metre away. "What in the bloody hell are you doing, you stupid git?"

Holding his hands up in mock defense, Harry asks, "Whoa, what's wrong with you?"

"I'm undressing! _Excuse_ me for desiring a little privacy," the former slytherin snaps, surprisingly livid.

"Draco," Harry starts, venturing into the room. He wears a comic expression, and his eyes shine with mirth underneath his glasses. "I'm not saying that I deserve to see you topless because I'm your boyfriend, _but_ I am a guy, so I do know what's under there, regardless." With his free hand, he gestures to Draco's chest.

"No, you don't," Draco snaps again, but the fire behind his words is gone. Suddenly, he feels as he did many months ago, during a darker, more confusing time. A time when he'd been so torn up by lingering fear and fresh remorse. A time when his chest still ached.

A time when the skin of his arm still burned.

He looks away from Harry, his eyes unfocused. "You don't know . . ."

Sensing a shift in the ambiance of the conversation, Harry sets his drink aside and reaches out to lay a hand on Draco's shoulder. "Hey, what's wrong?"

The soothing lilt of Harry's voice encourages Draco to move his eyes back to Harry. Sure enough, he does feel a bit calmer when their eyes meet. However, glancing at that jagged scar just above Harry's brow, his anguish returns, causing his own brow to furrow. He shoots his gaze to the floor once more.

Draco begins to wonder if he should even go tonight. It doesn't really make sense for him to do so. It's not as though the Weasleys _want_ him at their Christmas celebration. He's only invited because he's with Harry, which doesn't really make sense either. Not after everything. Not after all the lies and schemes and—

"Draco, love," Harry whispers, moving his hand to Draco's cheek. The choice of endearment stuns him a little, and unintentionally, Draco's eyes return to Harry once more. He notices that Harry has drawn himself closer. "What is it?"

"I . . ." Draco starts, unsure of how to finish.

 _I shouldn't come with you tonight,_ he wants to say.

 _I don't deserve you,_ his mind whispers.

Unaware of Draco's inner struggle, Harry leans forward, bringing his other hand up to stroke Draco's untouched cheek. "Is it—" he murmurs, the words seemingly hard to push out. "Is it from that time in sixth year when I . . ." Harry swallows thickly, unable to complete the thought.

As Harry's line of thinking has clearly gone in a direction so different from his own, it takes Draco a moment to realize that Harry'd been referring to the day he'd happened upon him in the restroom and subsequently used the _sectumsempra_ curse. Of course, Draco can tell that he remembers it a bit differently than Harry does. Harry likely remembers it as the day he'd foolishly used a curse that he'd never tried out before only to have it backfire spectacularly.

In contrast, Draco has always focused on the moment before the curse struck him. The moment the beginning of the Cruciatus curse had rolled of his tongue. Harry likely regrets striking him with such a violent curse, whereas Draco is secretly glad of it. That day, Harry's retaliation prevented Draco from using an Unforgivable Curse on the boy that would become the man before him.

It's only natural for him to want to hide the scars from Harry.

Harry's hands slide down to rest on Draco's clavicles, and with their foreheads and the tips of their noses touching, he asks, "Can I see?"

Draco tightens his grip on his shirt. "You don't want to—"

"I do," Harry breathes. "It's okay. I won't get upset."

Gradually, Draco's white-knuckle grip relaxes until Harry is able to slide the garment from his shoulders. It drops to the floor, leaving his torso and arms bare. The cold air hits his skin, but that's not why he tenses up.

Harry drops his eyes to map out the newly revealed skin, but Draco doesn't look down with him. He already knows how sharply the two white stretches of misshapen flesh stand out against the rest of his skin. He remembers how angry and red they used to look. He can recall how mad he'd been when Madame Pomfrey had told him it was too late to apply dittany and the scarring would be inevitable.

Hence, rather than surveying the skin of his own chest, he watches Harry's face and waits for a grimace at the severity of the scars. He waits for a downturn of lips at the undue guilt.

But most of all, Draco waits for Harry's green eyes to narrow in disgust, whether at the ugliness of the marks or himself.

He's surprised when they flick up to meet his stony grey ones instead.

The tips of Harry's fingers make contact with the skin at the top of Draco's chest. Having not expected it, he sucks in a sharp breath.

Startled, Harry drops his hands. "Is this not okay?"

Scoffing, Draco throws his head to the side to glare at the wall behind his bed. He says, "Like I care what you do, Potter," but when he feels a timid touch against the end of the scar highest on his chest, the longest one, he swallows thickly.

Slowly, Harry runs the pads of his fingers along the length of the scar, starting at the right side of the pectoral muscles and ending under the left side of the rib cage. Then he moves to the smaller one, which rests under and to the right of the sternum. Once he's traced the entirety of the blemish, he rests his hand on Draco's waist.

"I'm sorry," Harry whispers.

"Well, you should be," Draco snaps despite not meaning it. "I had to wear bandaging for two weeks after you gave me these."

Harry leans forward, pressing a soft, apologetic kiss to Draco's lips. "I shouldn't have used that spell. I'm sorry."

"It's fine," Draco murmurs against Harry's mouth, wanting simply to put the topic to rest. "I don't care anymore."

"That's clearly not true," Harry says, reaching down to entangle his free hand with Draco's. "You're upset."

Angry at Harry's inability to _just let this go,_ Draco wrenches his hand away and steps back. "I'm _not_ upset."

"You're yelling," Harry informs him.

"No, I'm not," he retorts, forcibly lowering his voice. He lets out a heavy breath in an effort to calm down.

Harry waits a moment before whispering, "Draco," encouraging his boyfriend to speak his mind.

A moment of hesitation passes, and then Draco's face pinches up in anguish. His stomach twists uncomfortably, and he expels another heavy breath. "Fine," he spits. "I'm _upset_ because you're guilty."

Clearly confused, Harry asks, "Why?"

"Because you shouldn't be," Draco all but shouts, throwing a hand up. "I deserved it!"

"That's not tru—"

"Oh, please," Draco interrupts. "We both know what I'd been trying to psych myself into when you'd stumbled in." He looks away so he doesn't have to watch Harry's eyes drop. Quietly, he continues, "Besides, if you hadn't struck me when you did, things would've turned out . . . far differently."

Harry tilts his head a little, wondering aloud, "You mean, with the Cruciatus curse?"

"Obviously," Draco scoffs, looking back to pin Harry with a half-hearted glare. When their eyes meet again, Harry smiles suddenly—not that he can fathom as to why—and steps forward, taking his hands and pressing a slow, tender kiss to his lips. Somewhat begrudgingly, he feels his shoulders relax and moves into his lover's hold.

Harry gives a humorous shrug once he's pulled back. "It's not like you haven't done worse."

"Oh, alright," Draco gripes, turning his head away. Despite himself, he can't seem to summon the anger from earlier. Not that Harry's comforted him, of course. He's merely tired himself out.

"Look," Harry starts, and hesitantly, Draco turns his gaze back. "I'm not saying I forgive you for everything because honestly, I don't." At this, Draco's brow furrows slightly. "But," Harry continues, "It's in the past."

Draco sighs, feeling himself finally calm down. This is the end of the conversation—for tonight, that is—and that's okay.

"Alright," he whispers.

"Alright," Harry echoes fondly before stepping back. "Now, come on. If we're late, Hermione is going to have my arse."

Draco gives a short laugh as he bends to pick up his shirt. He slips it on, buttons it up quickly, and reaches for his tie.

"Oh, forget the tie," Harry suggests as heads toward the front door. "Where we're going, no one cares about crap like that."

Draco ponders a moment before ultimately dropping the tie back on his dresser. "Figures."

"Heard that!"

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 **I hope you noticed (AND APPRECIATE) that I put extra care into using oxford commas, birthday girl!**

 **Thx for reading, everyone!**


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